The Liber Astartes' Thought Experiments

[Conn Eremon]

Liberum Cogitatio Experimenta

Hello, and welcome to the Liber Astartes' Thought Experiments! In this thread, we will explore our DIYs in ways designed to challenge and invigorate us. We will explore the concept of a DIY, including its inception, its conclusion, and everything in-between or outside, using periodic exercises that will ask you to think of things you otherwise might not have. You will travel along the infinite lines of 'what if?' and perhaps uncover something new, something hidden, something wonderful. How far you go with these experiments is up to you. Anyone and everyone is invited to participate, whether you already have a DIY, of any kind acceptable under the B&C's rules, if you are interested in creating one, or even if you just feel inspired to let your creative juices flow!

I will present various, weekly experiments that we will all tackle. Each of us will select one of our own DIYs with which to answer these experiments. You will post your responses, your thoughts and findings, in this thread, receiving support and C&C from others and collaborating in kind. What you create in this thread does not need to be anything you keep or hold onto. The purpose of these exercises is simply to get you to think along lines you might not otherwise have done so. To visualize your DIY differently than you already have, and perhaps to find something new of worth or value in it. Hopefully, what we do here will provide you with inspiration, either in what you create or because of what you have created.

As such, you are encouraged to explore ideas and concepts deliberately contrary to the very basics of what you will have already decided for your DIY. I hope you will have as much fun exploring these concepts as I know I will. If you do update your own articles or other creations with something that arose from within this thread, whether by being inspired by a particular exercise or by enjoying a particular creation of yours, anything at all that originated from this thread really, let us know! We would love to hear a success story, and it lets those in charge see what kind of an impact our threads are having.

Now that you've been introduced to what this thread is all about, let's get down to it!


Experiment

• A Narrative Shift
• A Hero's Fall
• A Progenitor's Judgement
• The Final Days
• A Breaking Point
• A Red Alliance
• A Bond Of Blood
• A Derivative Original
• An Unshaken Faith
• A House Divided
• A World Burns
• Of Different Blood
• A Different Time
• An Unexpected Battlefield
• A Sudden Change
• Where Were You
• Re-Evaluating Interests
• A Galaxy of Possibilities
• New Blood
• Up to Chance
• Sharing the Limelight

Edited March 20, 2016 by Conn Eremon

[Conn Eremon]

PRIMUM EXPERIENDI

A Narrative Shift

Most of us prefer to craft our DIY articles using omniscient or near-omniscient narrators. They know everything there is to know about the DIY, and present to the audience valuable information that even the DIY itself may not fully be aware of in-universe. Sometimes, there are those who do something a little different, and invariably that leads to an Inquisitorial report on the DIY.

Let's do something different. The first exercise then is to present your DIY from an in-universe viewpoint that could not know the full story that is your DIY. This experiment has a wide range of possibilities in it. You can use the denizens of a home world, the population of an embattled Imperial domain, the slave/serfs indentured to your DIY's service, or allies, whether long-lived or frighteningly temporary.

Don't be afraid to lie about your DIY. These narrators won't know everything about them. They won't know their extensive history, they might not comprehend their full character. They might misunderstand, they might disagree. Maybe your DIY is monstrous to them, rather than their savior. Or maybe what they should see as monstrous they instead see as salvation. They may have caught only a glimpse of your DIY in the distance, and spun among themselves a grandiose tale, a myth that bears little resemblance to the truth. Or perhaps they have spent time alongside your DIY, as compatriots and allies, and through their observations know certain truths that the DIY chooses to ignore or is unaware.

Who you choose as narrator, and how this narrator presents your DIY, is up to you. Have fun with it. Do something you might not otherwise have done. Force yourself to do something different. Ultimately, this task is designed to make you think of your DIY in a different light than you already do, and from this vantage point unveil aspects that you might be surprised to find.
 

Inspire, and be inspired! 

 

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For this first experiment, I will submit a narrative account of the Militarum Tempestus regiment DIY, the Alephic Volpines. These fellows don't yet have an article, but they're on the list. For this particular experiment, I'm going to try and think of how this regiment might appear to the enemy while in a state of war.

 

 

 

The Secession of Ghraum Tertius

 

It had been three years since Baron Moren turned back the tithe ships. Three years since the assault on the Astropathic Spire. We knew a cry had gone out. We knew the Imperium would come. When the vessel entered our sensor ranges, we were expecting to see dozens, hundreds of lights to come spilling out onto our screen. The small vessel was nearly halfway to the first security cordon before we began to wonder if it was alone. A pair of destroyers broke off from their patrol to intercept the vessel. Though our sensors showed their paths intersecting, the destroyers reported seeing nothing. Over the course of a day, the sensor blip moved toward our world at a high speed, and yet it only ever appeared on our screens.

 

When the vessel reached planetside and disappeared, with no reports of sightings forthcoming, it was dismissed as an error in the machine. We gave one of the surviving Martians a brief respite from their ongoing network deprivation punishment to take a look at the machine. Adamantly insisting that there was no fault within the machine, the red-robe was executed for incompetence. We questioned locals from the area the vessel disappeared. Nothing satisfactory was provided. Little surprise, the populace has been less than open with the enforcement units in recent years. We forgot about the sensor blip, assumed an error, and raised no alarms. For days, the only thing done to stir excitement was disciplinary actions against border guard found sleeping at their post.

 

The first death was at Mountain Outpost 63-Rho-9. The sound of gunshots had alerted the facility. Upon investigation, the body of one Sergeant Alyn Vestur was found. One arm had been dislocated, and a long, smooth cut could be seen just under the sergeant's jawline. Forensic investigation led us to assume that his killer had pinned the sergeant's arm behind him, dislocating his shoulder in the struggle, and drew a small knife across the man's throat. The sergeant's gun was a few meters away, its clip half empty, confirming that the gun fired was the sergeant's own. During the investigation, demolition charges set at key points in the structure of the outpost were detonated. Of the 350 men stationed there, 14 survived the collapse of the structure and the subsequent plummet down the mountainside.

 

Rumors began to spread that the God of the Dead had sent one of his skeletal angels of death. Legends told of these beings plummeting down upon a world in manufactured comets, which certainly seemed like what had been seen on the system sensors. More likely it was a forward reconnaissance force, at least a demi-company in size. We put the remaining Mountain Outposts on alert, however aside from a few dismissible sightings there was no further incident in that region. Fourteen days later, surveillance-servitors located on the outer skin of Hive Solhelm went dark. While it was not uncommon for these creatures to fall from their perch, the timing demanded that the incident be looked into. Broken bodies were found in the brush along the base of the Hive, and caught along the jagged edges of the Hive wall. Puncture wounds consistent with long-range needle fire confirmed our suspicions and our fears.

 

Already under martial law, Hive Solhelm was reinforced from the reserves. Scouts, snipers, checkpoints, hell, even armor divisions were sent in force. Some apparently encountered the enemy, though only vox silence and uncovered bodies betrayed this fact to their brothers in arms. General Kastor was in operational command of Hive Solhelm at this time, stationed within the Solhelm bunker, the center of communications between orbital defenses, security cordons and the planet. A charismatic man known for his creativity in punishment details, he went missing less than a week after the enemy had entered inside the city. An attempt at resetting the passcodes to the communications array proved less than fruitful, the set-up clearly tampered with. Following the death of their comrade, the other Techpriests refused to provide assistance. They were summarily executed for this resistance. Many of us called out against this debilitating act of violence, but their words fell on deaf ears.

 

The enemy exfiltrated the Hive by commandeering a supply train, at least one agent posing as an officer. Lens-captures showed the agent in silhouette, with only a portion of his face clear. Though too poor of quality for identification purposes, we circulated it as an attempt to dissuade the panic that had begun to rise out of fear of the Emperor's Angels coming to render judgment. Here was a mortal of flesh, clear to see. This was not a monster of metal and bone. The circulation had no noticeable impact.

 

Stratocopters caught up to the train about forty kilometers from Capitol Spire. The crew and guards were taken into custody, however their stories checked out against the documentation of unit rosters. Our interviews revealed that there were additional men that had been assigned last minute, though conflicting descriptions made it difficult to discern the exact number. It is assumed that the enemy had found a way off the supply train after leaving Hive Solhelm and by now were likely deep in the Osglen Forest. Baron Moren, tired of reading reports of failure, ordered the forest burned to the ground.

 

Aerial coverage of the forest was grounded due to the severity of the blaze, which would still be burning bright one week later, when the sensors noted another return. Unlike the first, this one was far from alone. A large fleet had arrived outsystem, and was arrowing directly for Ghraum Tertius. While active, the Ghraum System defense measures were unable to coordinate an effective defense against the Imperial fleet, due to a lack of communication between these stations and Ghraum Tertius. Surface-to-orbit nucleonic rockets were launched at the fleet, however the heavy smoke cover from the burning Osglen Forest severely impacted initial targeting protocols, enabling the closing ships to more easily neutralize the threats from afar.

 

With orbital dominance won with barely any resistance, we were expecting to be besieged. Instead, crippling orbital strikes took out vital systems across the planet, with analysis showing these inspired attacks to be in keeping with the intelligence held by the still-missing General Kastor. With our forces thrown into disarray, the following invasion found easy purchase. Within three months, Baron Moren and extended family were hung from the Capitol Spire and Ghraum Tertius was forced to surrender unconditionally.

 

+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+

 

“This is Squad Serpentis of the Alephic Vulpines to the Saint's Blade, memetic-protocol mem-gimel-samekh. Targets neutralized. Intelligence uploaded. Awaiting pick-up.”

 

 

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I figured I start it off with a success story, of what it must be like from the enemy's perspective if the Alephic Vulpines do their job right. I realized about halfway through that, due to the scale of an entire planet as their battleground, I shouldn't hold to their source material so tightly when it comes to how many of this regiment is in play in a single theater of war. While I did increase it to be higher than my original intent, looking back upon it, I think I will want to increase it even further. I think that it would have been better if I had the whole the regiment take part.

 

I might even narrow down the scope of their involvement as well. My original view of this regiment was that they could and would take part in the kind of engagement I described above, but now that I have written that, and seen what this regiment looks like when you don't consider exactly what it is doing itself, from their eyes, it really comes across like too much. While their source material is all about that one-man army, when I finally get to writing about this regiment they will be much more just another cog in the machine.

 

Well, thoughts, C&C on this are welcome. I'm rather excited to see what the rest of you might offer to this. Please note that the length and style of my own submission is not indicative of what I expect to see from others, and should not be seen as such.

Edited August 25, 2015 by Conn Eremon

[Son of Carnelian]

"My father had worked in the fields all his life. As soon as he could walk, he started cutting his hands on the wheat. As he grew stronger, his own parents grew weaker. Age and weariness took them to the Emperor's side, leaving my father alone in the fields."

 

"But it would not stay that way."

 

"You see child, one man cannot do the job of many, and though our family does not tend much land, our lords notice every change in the harvests. They count every bale and bushel. Should a man fall short, woe unto him and his household, for then he may find himself host... to the Crimson Lords." 

 

"They say the Astartes that rule our lands bear the colors of one of their own lords, long since passed into legend. But the morning my father saw the Astartes marching towards his fields, he knew why they wore the red and tan. The red stood for blood, frozen in his veins. The tan stood for his bones, paralyzed from fear. They could kill him with a gesture, and only his blood and bones would remain." 

 

"They came to him that morning, ten strong. Each of them stood three full heads taller than my father, their shoulders broad and their armor resplendent in the early sun. And though they came to him with weapons in hand, my father did not cower before them. He bowed, welcomed them, and asked how he might serve them."

 

"They told him that his harvest had not yielded enough. That he must tend to the fields faster, so that his crop could grow and meet their expectations. My father knew better than to protest. He told them that I would not happen again."

 

"But as he turned to continue his work, the Crimson Lords produced another from their ranks. A young woman, only a few years his junior. She had a face streaked with tears and she looked at him with such desperation that my father's own eyes could not keep from crying." 

 

"The Crimson Lords left her with my father, explaining they had brought her to keep his productivity up. To give him help so that he did not fall behind again. They departed without another word."

 

"That's how my mother and father, your grandmother and grandfather met. She was little more than a child, torn from her own home to aid a perfect stranger in his duties. In that, they found a peace together. I do not know if the Crimson Lords knew that they would love one another. I don't know if the Crimson Lords even understand love. But I know this: whenever you hear tales of the Crimson Lords crushing fiefdoms and destroying lands, know that those tales have not a note of truth to them."

 

"Because the Crimson Lords made our family. And they keep us safe even now." 

[paulJam]

initial brain dump...

 

 

Light.

 

From light were my components forged. The glowing orange cooks away to a dull, shiny silver as my consciousness develops in its wake.

 

I fall, several impacts jolt my now-solidified shape, before I reach equilibrium inside a dark chamber. My surface is burnished in spots by the rolling contact with countless identical siblings.

 

We pour downward through labyrinth channels, lightness, darkness, lightness, darkness. In a subdued light my insides are filled with a rapidly solidifying liquid. A metal plug is screwed into place, a cutting intrusion into my metal sides. I feel the liquid’s slowly corrosive effect weakening my structure ever so minutely.

 

Rhythmic mechanical vibrations fill the air, reflecting off my hard shell. I feel the echoes of distant hard impacts, gusts of heated currents flowing by, organic utterances from large beings that pass.

 

I am seated within a larger object; squeezed into immobility. Metal, I sense but different to me, softer.

 

I feel more chemicals reacting on my surface as I am tipped on my side, I roll along a dark slightly adhesive platform before being scooped into a container. More of my siblings are elevated on columns of yellow metal beside me, before folding darkness descend again.

 

For the longest time, incalculable, immeasurable, we sit in darkness. The newly recognized vibrations of the outside world lost eventually in this dark stasis, and I cease to exist.

 

 

Light, absent for so long, bursts around me. Was the darkness real?

 

Intonations are emanating from a large being that reaches toward me.

 

A solid form lifts me and I am fitted forcefully into different type of container; Worn metal, straight lines, a similar colour to me. It smells of fire, oils, but behind that the faintest notes of raw soil and organic matter.

 

Within a single column my siblings and I wait; pale reflections of light shine through small gaps in our stern metallic housing.

 

 

 

 

With a tumultuous burst the golden tube above me unleashes a flash of fire before it is gone. I feel my form shuffled upward from the constant pressure below.

 

A burning, chemical explosion starts momentarily under my flattened base surface. In a blur I am ejected into a clear blue existence. Spinning. Many coloured forms flash by as friction and acceleration deform my shell.

 

A shape in front of me approaches with rapid purposefulness and I feel a change occurring in the interconnected prosthesis attached to me; a reaction that bodes finality.

 

I am engulfed in overwhelming light as I fracture and shatter.

 

Blackness.

[Conn Eremon]

Some very nice work you two. I have a question for you, did this exercise teach you something about your DIY? I know that I certainly made decisions on some matters as I was writing, decisions that I didn't really realize I was still kind of hung up on and which I will further use to flesh it out when I later give them a proper article.

 

What about you? Did you learn something new? Did it confirm for you something you already knew?

[Son of Carnelian]

This exercise definitely coalesced a bunch of thoughts I had about how the Crimson Lords interact with the people of their fiefdoms. I'm always shifting how I think the Crimson Lords act as rulers of the planet Carnelian, but I realize that they all might manage their lands differently. Some take an individual approach, some treat their serfs cruelly, some treat them better. But as I learned studying slavery, there are no such things as "good masters." All masters own others, no matter how kind they act towards them. 

 

So yes, I think it did help teach me something about the Crimson Lords. A fun challenge! I look forward to more. 

[Dark Apostle Thirst]

The old man sat in his rocking chair. It was a poorly made thing, its steel corroded and worn, and what blankets that could be afforded to be placed on it were as suffering from age as the man was. Children sat all around him none the less, and adults who wanted to hear of the Emperor's Angels. He was one of the few who had existed in the time before the coming of the Imperium.

 

"We had wood, then,' he would always begin. 'Lived on the edge of a forest. So many trees... imagine looking out when you take a trip to the edge of the hive, and can see the horizon? All filled up with the plants. Couldn't see the ground, if we were looking from the hive. We had fruit, too, the real kind, not the stuff the dispensers put out. Sweeter than you could believe.'

 

He was silent, for a moment.

 

'We sold the fruit to the city, which was not too far from us. One day, padre was looking up in the sky, and there were things falling through it. Madre said she could see a ship, and she had real good eyesight, so we believed her. We watched as they fell into the city. Later that day, people came to us. A lot of them were scared, some wounded. A man died on our front porch.'

 

Here he took another pause, knowing that it would take but a few seconds for the kids to be explained what a porch was. It wasn't important to the story, of course, but he thought that a man had died, and that should be respected.

 

'By that time we could see a lot of smoke, and from what the people were saying, it seemed real clear to me the city had been attacked. We didn't know why. Rumor going around was that the Queen had made the gods angry. We later learned there was only one God-Emperor, with His Primarchs, His Saints, and His Angels, and He wasn't very happy with the Queen for refusing to join the Imperium. At the time, we were just confused, and scared. It was nightfall when awe came, though. We heard it coming for a few minutes before it arrived, a deep throaty growl of engines louder than anything we could make on our little fruit farm. By the time we saw the lights on it, a lot of the refugees had run. We stayed, though. Padre told madre to take us and go with the others, but she didn't want to leave him. Brave woman.'

 

His eyes misted as he fell fully into the memory. 'Yeah, bigger than our entire house it was. Black and orange, a huge, thundering hunk of ceramite. It powered down, I guess, because it got real quiet, and the lights dimmed, so we could see, I guess. An Angel walked out, speaking a language we didn't understand yet. It saw my father standing before it, almost challenging it. Brave man. It took off its helmet, shaped like a skull. Made me think the god of death had come for us. It kissed the winged symbol it was carrying, pointed this monstrous gun at us, and gestured for padre to kneel and kiss it too. And he did. After that, it just left.'

 

'Madre said she saw more ships come, and that's when the planet joined the Imperium. We were taught to understand what we saw - that wasn't just any old Angel, but a Chaplain of the Storm Krakens. A million more Angels out there in the stars, boys and girls. Maybe you'll get the chance to meet one some day."

[paulJam]

Some very nice work you two. I have a question for you, did this exercise teach you something about your DIY? I know that I certainly made decisions on some matters as I was writing, decisions that I didn't really realize I was still kind of hung up on and which I will further use to flesh it out when I later give them a proper article.

 

What about you? Did you learn something new? Did it confirm for you something you already knew?

Before I started writing I hadn't really considered how the machine spirit may actually manifest within the tools of the marines.

Which leads me to wonder if the marines have similar empathy or ideas about the gear they use.

The only tenuous link to the DIY is that my chapter is fairly shooty which i had been thinking about before starting "i am bob's bolter round."

Probably a titan would have more interesting tales to tell   :)

Fun exercise, thanks Liber Day organizers !!

[Lysimachus]

Here we go, a little piece about my Marines Adamant, was going to do it from an AdMech perspective but realised I could add a more 'human' POV if I did from the viewpoint of one of the Chapter's fleet crew selected from the local Hive world:

 

 

Deck Officer Naton Lesat lay on his narrow bunk and tried desperately to fall asleep. The day had started so well! More than twelve years of hard work had led him to it; four years at one of Gharant V's prestigious naval acadamies, five serving as an Ensign on a patrol submersible and two more on a intrasystem Mechanicus cruiser. The last year had been spent at the Marines Adamant's own orbital facilities. He had excelled in the additional training provided there by an elderly Chapter serf, himself a product of Gharant V's proud Navy. Lesat's assignment to one of the Chapter's finest vessels, the Battle-barge Slaktare, came as no surprise to him.

 

The ship was a vast, brutal piece of machinery, yet beautiful in its stark, angular lethality. Naton's first view of its dark green hull emblazoned with the Chapter's white tower less than fourteen hours previously had taken his breath away. His delight at being given a place on one of the most powerful fighting vessels the Imperium had ever created, however, had quickly faded.

 

The Astartes who had allowed the occupants of Lesat's shuttle to board - a monstrous, shaggy bearded brute with a string of long, curved teeth hanging from his chest - had taken a lingering look at the dataslate the young officer had presented, looked Lesat up and down with a cold sneer and sent him on to find Brother Hjeldin without a word of welcome spoken. Lord Hjeldin, a grizzled Iron Wyrd, was the tech adept responsible for the running of the vast ship when none of the Chapter's commanders were aboard. Lesat had hoped for a warmer reception from the Iron Wyrd, but Hjeldin took his oath of fealty with utter indifference and mechanical precision. His many bionic components whirring softly, the aged Marine had handed Naton his first assignment, another dataslate intended for Warleader Isgrimnur himself.

 

The absolute master of the Marines Adamant 4th Household, Isgrimnur Ironheart had a fearsome reputation and Lesat was determined to make a good first impression. He had hurried to the main hangar where the Warleader was supervising the loading of his troops and vehicles. As Naton entered the massive space, he had been overcome by the sheer presence of more than a hundred Space Marines. Though the giants were no less efficient in their work than the servitors of Lesat's previous vessel, they were far, far louder. Squad sergeants roared curses at their men as they stowed weapons and other equipment, and armour-clad titans jostled and snarled at one another with barely concealed spite.

 

As the deck officer stepped out into the organised chaos, the Marines in his path had each paused to glare as he passed. Lesat had quailed inside at the cold anger in their eyes, the violent tension in their massive frames. A few had even let out deep, hate-filled growls as he crossed the hangar floor and approached the imposing figures of Waleader Isgrimnur and his bodyguards. When Naton moved within a few metres, one of the Terminator guards had abruptly stumped forwards, effortlessly and wordlessly lifting a huge powered axe in his massive fist and laying its wicked edge against Lesat's collarbone.

 

With a simple wave of his hand, the Warleader had allowed Lesat to approach and deliver the dataslate. Isgrimnur was a colossal warrior, even bigger than his guardians, clad in Tactical Dreadnought Armour covered in furs and decorated with stone charms and long, razor sharp teeth. Much of his body had been replaced with bionic augments and most of his grizzled face was covered by a thick, white beard tied in long braids. Unlike his followers, the master of the 4th Household had been civil, even cordial, and Lesat had started to feel better about his new post. Then he had momentarily caught the Warleader's one organic eye and had realised that the cold rage, the weighing of Lesat - or anyone else around him - as a potential threat to be crushed, was as present in Isgrimnur as it was in any of his men. It was simply better controlled.

 

Lesat had made his excuses and left as quickly as possible, retreating to one of the quieter secondary hangars until his duty shift ended. He'd then headed to the cramped cabin that he shared with twenty other junior officers where he found Gunnnery Officer Triaane, a Gharantian who had served for several years aboard the Slaktare. When Lesat had questioned him about the Astartes unfounded hostility, Cordelle had grinned tensely.

 

"Aye," he'd laughed tiredly, "the 'trust issues' the Chapter suffers with! Most of them would gut their own mothers if they gave them half a reason to doubt them! They don't even like each other much, although they won't fight, not now we're on campaign. It's part of their 'Code'."

 

Lesat had frowned, horrified by the lack of reason, so different to the air of calm and logic that had prevailed on the system cruiser. He'd asked Triaane how they could possibly get the Marines to trust them? The gunnery officer had smiled and it was his answer that had left Lesat lying here on his bunk unable to relax enough to sleep.

 

"Trust us? Oh, that's simple. Do your job. Keep your head down." His smile had become somewhat forced. "And never make a mistake. Ever."

[Olis]

Starved

It has been many years since anyone has seen the Emperor's angels, stranger. In the time of my father, Sert Ctherrien, four boys left the town for the wastelands in hopes of ascending. No clue of their success was seen for ten or twenty seasons. Then one day, an angel appeared in the distance. Few things stood out quite so much, so I am told, than a giant black-armoured angel. He waited for something, that much the people could tell. He stood for almost an hour after we had spotted him before a vast black shape fell from the sky, fire bellowing from it's rear and underside. He left on the flyer and in his stead sat a great, metal rectangular box. 

 

Those years had been unkind to the town, for we had no minerals or ore and our farms bore little enough to sustain us. The gift from the heavens left by the angel was everything the town had prayed for - strange grain to last us months, water fresher and clearer than what lay in the well. The township celebrated with gusto, the angels had seen our plight and answered. The widow Ermayer was convinced that the angel had been her boy. 

 

That, my friend, was thirty seasons ago. The grain is gone and so is the water. For the third time in my life, I am now watching children leave for the wastelands as my father once had. Unlike the late widow, I don't expect to see those wretches again - I doubt any of them will make it. We are undernourished and rely solely on traders like you, nowadays. Our crops fail all too often to bother now and the well is almost dry. This is a dead town taking it's time to lay down and die.

 

Yet, still, we pray for the angels to return.

 

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Short and not very sweet. As I wrote this, it occurred to me that the population of my chapter's homeworld is pretty screwed. If not for occasional supply drops, the towns and cities would simply starve, denying the Chapter of recruits. I really must see about posting up the chapter sometime...

[Father Mehman]

It's so musty down here. Not even a proper lumen strip to light the way. Holy Emperor- is that a rat? This basement is dreadful!

Greetings, Liber-folk! During the festival the other day, a few of you came to the Astra Militarum forum and proposed a rather fitting exercise/celebratory engagement for the day: create a DIY regiment to get some "literary juices" flowing. Well, it worked! Working on a completely new regiment got my noggin greased-up enough to start thinking of my main regiment and how it could do with a little more love. Then, this thread popped-up out of nowhere and I had to take the bait !

Reading through this exercise and putting it into practice was very fulfilling, especially for my gents in camouflage. What follows in an excerpt from the regiment's history. It tells, very vaguely mind you, about a hard-won victory in a trio of wars set in the Triedes Sector, Pacificus Segmentae, fought by the Ostheim 93rd, 7th Company "Timber Wolves".

Second War for Unification of the Drowned Planets (aka, The Shifting Ways War)

After victory, and eventual pacification, on the second planet in the Sumatari System, Sector Command deemed it a matter of import for the first planet, Sudari, to be recaptured from the forces of Chaos. Showing great courage and determination, the Ostheim 93rd Regiment vowed to stop the foul Barogenic Cult’s galactic march eastward on Sudari. To this end, a regiment of Militarum Tempestus Scions, the 23rd Cetan “Dire Wolves”, were seconded to the 7th Company. Although regarded at first as insular and uncaring soldiery, attitudes quickly changed when the Dire Wolves showed a strong bond with their adoptive company by saving their lives time and again on that arid planet. Without the aid shown to each other, both units were surely to die against the traitor who outnumbered the loyalists twelve-to-one.

After doing the exercise, this is what was found out about the company. Hope you enjoy !

You want to know about what? Oh, you’re referring to it by the Munitorum name. We called it the “Isolation War”. We were cut off from resupply, Throne, from supply, even, by those stinking masses of cultists and “things”. In orbit, on the ground, even by air. None of us thought anything could get through to us, let alone reinforcements. When they came, the game changed.

Around day thirteen or fourteen, early in the morning when it was still cool, I remember Sersjant Sjurd Torgeir- a big ox of a man with an attitude to match- pointed to the sky and yelled something along the lines of “Well, it’s been nice knowing you all. Looks like I’m off to see my daughter.” He always did get excited when he thought everyone was going to die. I digress. What he saw in the sky wasn’t our death, rather, it was our deliverance- though we didn’t see it as such at the time.

Large chunks of the desert were being blown all over the place. Sudari was already sandy so that just made it worse. So seeing all this destruction, I ordered the company to their battle stations. They moved quick that day. In fact, they moved more quickly than I had seen in a long while, although it was probably because they were all excited to be fighting something new instead of diseased monstrosities that wouldn’t go down unless you turned your charge setting half-way- something we weren’t allowed to do due to the shortage of munitions. At this point, Major Dagrson came out from the command tent smiling. He walked over to me and pointed to the sky, laughing all the while. That man was perhaps the greatest man I’d ever known in my tenure with the Guard. He always had a joke to tell, a drink to share, or a story to give. Hopefully I’ve achieved something like that with my men.

The forward sentries along the wall began to notice a pattern to the blasts. Where each blast hit, body parts and cooked viscera were being scattered, along with the sand. A few minutes later, we saw what was making those blasts: naval Valkyries! They’d broken the line, it was said later, and they were there to bring us much needed supplies-food, water, medical, etc- and to drop something else off: Scions. After our initial...greetings, their leader said there was only one problem, that’s why you only got one squad. He had made a joke. You don’t know how much that lifted everyone’s spirits.

[Conn Eremon]

Some great stuff going on here. I think I might even be inspired to take another crack at this this weekend. Anyone else

[Father Mehman]

Most definitely ! The story from the side of the Scions hasn't been told yet. It would be interesting to me to see what they thought about it all.

[Conn Eremon]

Sadly, the objective of the experiment is to tell the tale from the narrative viewpoint of something other than the DIY itself. However, I think I will include that battle when I get around to crafting an article for that regiment, so the tale you request will, eventually, be told. While I did want to try my hand at this again, I sadly ended up not having the time.

 

As this thread involves weekly experiments, the second experiment will begin tomorrow morning (as tracked in Segmentum Pacificus). I hope that it gets as good a response, if not better, as this first one did.

[Father Mehman]

I missed that very point, didn't I? Wow, here's to reading the instructions correctly. Even though the story that was written was done incorrectly, it really opened my eyes to the struggles of my DIY. Always learn from mistakes because even the shortfall may be gold.

 

I've honestly been waiting for this week's Thought Experiment. You've got at least one follower!

[Conn Eremon]

For the previous experiment, we looked at our DIYs through the eyes of others outside of the DIY, and the view was rather revealing. Maybe what was seen isn't all that true, if they were only more aware, but perceptions don't need to be accurate to be relevant. I hope everyone had fun with that experiment, and that the experiment aided them in some way.

 

But now it is time for a new experiment!

 

 

SECUNDO EXPERIMENTUM

A Hero's Fall

 

Every DIY has had its fair share of heroes and villains. Space Marines who stood head and shoulders above their brothers. Sororitas who showed great fervor. Colonels who inspired their regiments to the highest forms of glory and sacrifice. These individuals are legends, from the ages of legends. Their words are quoted by generations after. Their deeds provide the standards of those who would forever seek to surpass them. Their creeds would go on to shape untold lives. Their very identities would live on within their ancestors, who aspire to live up to these icons of ancient days.

 

These legendary figures come in all shapes and sizes, but they all have one thing in common.

 

They are all dead.

 

For this, the second experiment, what I want people to think about and discuss is not the lives and deeds of their heroes. Those are already often well accounted for, many times forming the basis around one or more of an article's sections. No, I don't want to hear about how these heroes lived, but how they died. Every hero meets their end, somehow.

 

Some meet a bloody end with dignity, blades in hand, facing against an opponent greater than they with honor and fury. Sigismund, the ancient knight who stood against the new Warmaster when no other would, is just such a hero. Others may be more ignominious, surviving all other threats to their well-being until the very ravages of time prove their undoing. Commissar Yarrick actually retired following the Second War for Armageddon, albeit for only a short period of time, that old coot. Some may have found an end that was not truly an end, for in this universe death is not always an escape from duty. Bjorn, last of the Russ, interred for ten millennia as a Dreadnought, is the epitome of this hero. Perhaps the remains of your heroes are on display, like the carved bones of Imperial Fist Chapter Masters or Roboute Guilliman, caught in moment of death. Of course, not all legends left behind recoverable remains, and perhaps their heritage is one of doubt and hope. Is the Khan really dead? Will Corax return?

 

So pick your DIY's greatest legend, tell us how that legend ends, and think about how this ending specifically affected your DIY.

 

Inspire, and be inspired!

Edited March 24, 2015 by Conn Eremon

[Olis]

Way back when I was still moving on from the first DIY draft of my Chapter, I had a Chaplain called Seraphias (not Seraphicus, my dude predates him by at least a decade) who met his end against - oh man this sounds so unoriginal - Cypher. In the years since, his story didn't change much until recently when the Chapter was renamed and I tried to tie another story in with this one using a common antagonist. That enemy would die millennia after his slaying of the warrior-iterator, proving that the Chapter would not rest on it's laurels. I'll dig up my memory stick with the story on it. 

[Conn Eremon]

You know, I had an idea in mind for this experiment about the character that was granted the same name as my B&C persona, which isn't all that dissimilar from your own.

 

But then that made me think of the other DIY I have that was the enemy in this legend, and I realized its own hero meets its end here, and that this end really impacts the DIY's future. It is also even more similar to your own.

 

And now I really want to tell that story, when I have the time.

[Azekellon]

A servitor's senses were blunt without the ministrations of the Techmarines directing the lobotomized husk, but on some deep animal level, what remained of Garok, multiple murderer of the Hive World Fellik Secondus rebelled against the damnable existence he kept. The world around him was streaks of crimson, silver, and white, muffled commands, and a cold stoniness where his liver used to be.

 

The Techmarine activated his Actuator Primaris, cranking his awareness to the limit, bringing the world around him into sharp focus. Where his right arm once was, a heavy bolter was mounted, tracking movement to his front.

 

I souldn't be able to carry that, he thought to himself. Taking in his surroundings, he realized he was on a voidship. In his childhood, they had rumbled the skies high over his home, rattling everything around.

 

The Techmarine gave a burst of machine-language orders, and deep in Garok's skull, he felt an irresistible pull to face forward. the autoloader on the heavy bolter racheted bolts onto the breech, and primed with a painful click that resounded through his chest.

 

no

 

Two armored bulks came forward down the passage. Only now, did he realize he could not hear. Nor could he see down the hall, filled with smoke as it was. Farther, deeper down the hall

 

daemons???

 

the orange light of burning promethium burned. Ever closer the armored bulks came, and out of the smoke, two living gods strode, bolters levelled. their armor bore the same heraldry as the Techmarine, but, different. Crimson it was, but overtly decorated one might even call it

 

excessive

 

ostentatious to the extreme.

 

The heavy bolter shuddered to silent life, the recoil rippling through Garok's frame. The two gods before him dropped,

 

an end to beauty, for shame, FOR SHAME

 

and there were more, more with their bolters flashing in the cramped space. Garok's heavy bolter once more sprayed fire deep into the hallway, cutting down  the ones before him. The Techmarine was long gone, leaving him alone.

 

A bolt round tore through his leg at the knee,

 

no pain? why, my honeychile? 

 

sending him to the hard deck. He futilely tried to get up to fill his orders, to gain some dignity in death. Another group of rounds ripped apart his chest, sending him flying. he landed on his back, as the terrible gods gathered around him

 

mother

 

and blew his rotted cerebrum across the deck.

 

EDIT: typo

Edited March 27, 2015 by Azekellon

[Arendious]

Belated response to Experiment 1:

 

The pain told Shaggin he was, not, in fact dead.  Unfortunately, that meant he was on the ground somewhere.  As a pilot, this was the last place he wanted to be.

Opening his eyes certainly didn't improve the situation, but it did tell him a little bit of what to expect.  Namely, more pain.  Pulsing waves of it coursed up his left leg, which betrayed it's broken nature with an unnatural angle.  The steel supports across the open space above him must have done for that.  The survival kit tethered to his harness was hanging from a similar support just out of easy reach.  The orange flash of exploding fuel outside threw bars of light through the shattered windows.  It also told him he hadn't landed far from his 'Bolt.  More realizations percolated up through the pain-haze as Shaggin tried to tease the survival kit, with its attendant medkit, down.  Firstly, that being this close to the crash meant that someone was going to come looking for him.  Secondly, that the roaring sound getting louder outside was likely LOTS of someones.  He found that thought an excellent motivation to get the survival kit down now, rather than later.  He almost had the kit unhooked when the voice in his head made him jump.

 

+++ RUMBLE 21, RUMBLE 21, SANDY 01 +++

 

Not in his head then, in his earpiece.  At least the radio on his flight suit still worked.  Thank the Emperor for small miracles.

 

"Sandy zero-one, Rumble two-one, I'm here."  He whispered as he pressed the transmit button on his harness.  The roaring was starting to become discernible voices shouting and screaming.

 

+++ RUMBLE 21, AUTHENTICATE THRONE-ALPHA-EULER +++

 

This meant trying to read the authenticator on his wrist.  The letters swam for a seeming eternity before he could make out the correct response.  "Sandy, Rumble authenticates Rho."

 

+++ RUMBLE 21, GOOD COPY, STANDBY +++

 

         Well, that was anti-climatic.  Apparently they just intended to let him wait, Shaggin decided.  As if responding to a cue, two of the locals chose that moment to step into the room.  Babbling excitedly to each other in the local sing-song dialect, they didn't notice him initially.  But seeing his shroud lines draped over the remains of the metal roof quickly gave them the hint.  Shouting frantically, they both rushed back out the door while Shaggin scrabbled for his sidearm.  The sound of running feet soon became the thunder of a crowd barreling toward him.  Then, crashing over him like the waves back home.  A literal wave of screaming humanity, kicking and clawing at him.  They screamed, he screamed, and the bark of his pistol was lost in the roar.  He felt himself lifted up, and for a second time that morning felt the approaching hand of death.

          Instead, the iron hand of death set him gently back on the ground.  This is getting to be a habit.  He'd lost the helmet and earpiece, a vicious work boot had swollen one eye shut, but with effort he opened the other.  Gone was the kaleidoscope of local garments and skin, instead a wall of mottled grey ceramite filled his vision.  

 

>>> More later, a couple hours of work just went pfft<<<  ~Arendious

Edited March 27, 2015 by Arendious

[Conn Eremon]

The colors resolved themselves as a descending blade, lightning arcing off as it clashes with the mist-borne.

 

No, not just mist . . . Focus . . .

 

The mist coalesced into a blade of its own, light-blue and cloudy. The swords struck, their elemental powers rippling at each other. As hoarfrost glazed one sword, the flickering discharges of the other dimpled the ice in arcane paths. As quickly as the blades touched, they scraped across each other and disengaged.

 

Focus . . .

 

The warriors who wielded the weapons were revealed from the dissipating shroud, as they spun about each other on frozen, cracked earth. The one who bore the blade of ice looked as if he were made of ice as well, his heavy armor gusting bursts of fog as if breathing from every surface. The other, he who wielded the . . . he who wielded . . .

 

Hound's Tooth . . .

 

The warrior held the Hound's Tooth, his other arm ending in a great claw fashioned after his Chapter's namesake. Though both weapons were handled with finesse and brutal power, for he was the Tiger, the cold one moved as if a dancer, a master swordsman, one of the highborn. The two battled against each other, and the very elements raged about them in concert.

 

No, that isn't what happened . . . my men . . .

 

The two battled against each other, at the center of a storm of war. All about them clashed warriors, wearing the same colors as the pair. The two warriors ignored their surroundings, as their duel consumed them. For an age, they fought, until that moment, the moment that comes in all struggles, when the tempo shifts, and one inevitably gains advantage over the other.

 

No, don't . . .

 

The tiger's claw gripped fast the shard of ice, and with a burst from its fire and the shriek of talons, the blade was shattered. The highborn was forced to his knees, his hands streaking to the bolt pistol at his hip. The Hound's Tooth descends, the pistol rises. The powered edge touches the skin of an unprotected neck, blackening it. The trigger-finger pulls, small burst of gas and flame as the shell reveals itself. The sword cuts through, and the cold one's body begins to go limp. There is fire in the tiger's eye.

 

GRAAAHHHHHHHH!

 

“My lord!”

 

The pain of awakening, of phantom memories, fade as quickly as they come. Static images focus into a flickering green haze. A figure stands before him. It is himself, the memories remain. No, it is not himself who stands before him. Spasmodic text surrounds the figure like a halo. An inheritor, wearing the armor and weapons of an ancient legend. A legend he awakens now.

 

“Elder King, we have need of you on the front lines. The Highborn have returned to this Sector, and make war with us in our very home.”

 

THEN DIRECT ME TO THEM, AND I WILL END THE WAR.

 

 

+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+

 

 

I ended up going for my original idea anyways. The legend you see here is my usernamesake, Conn Eremon, legendary High King of the Emerald Tigers Chapter from way back in the day. He's the one who successfully leads the Emerald Tigers against the Highborn, my Emperor's Children Warband DIY, driving them out of their Sector. In the process, he slays their Chaos Lord, but is himself so badly injured that he is interred into a dreadnought chassis (the Chapter's only Contemptor, in fact). However, the second-in-command of the Highborn proves equal to the task of recovering the Warband from this loss, making them even greater than before. Making a pact with the Eyes of Tivan, my World Eaters Warband DIY, they assault the Sector again, but this time with the intent of straight up killing the Emerald Tigers. And it nearly works, too. Their very home world comes under assault by two very determined Warbands, when the majority of the Chapter is absent, putting out a million fires. If it wasn't for a returned legend such as this one, they may very well have succeeded at their task.

 

You know, I can't really say I learned anything new about my DIYs with this, but I always cherish the opportunities to talk about my absolute favorite DIY. :D

[Father Mehman]

Thousands of lightyears away, Oberst Hod Ari, known to his men as the “Line-breaker”, thought of home, of Ostheim. He recalled the mountains’ proud defiance against the oceans’ roar and clamour. The fjord in which he used to swim, and whose waters he could feel even now, was the most peaceful place he had found in the Imperium, to be sure. The most vivid memories of Ostheim were those of his wife, Astrid.

Oh, his Asta! None could call her that except him. Even for all her love and warmth, she always corrected those who would be so familiar. He could see her lovely blonde hair...or was it red? The oberst shook his head and smiled through the unknown. When he was appointed to lead the first Ostheim regiment to glory, they both laughed and embraced each other. Already High Chieftains of the north-eastern cities and villages, they had both experienced high times and struggles with their people. For Hod to lead the whole of the planet’s men was a great honour that Astrid expounded upon daily until he voyaged into the stars.

She was the best thing in his life, besides the news of their child. His son would follow in his footsteps...his daughter would be the most beautiful of all the people aboard the transport ships. His thoughts not clear, his mind clouded with misjudgment, the Oberst opened his eyes.

He wasn’t on Ostheim with his wife and child. He wasn’t even on a transport ship. On his back, all Ari could see was the black-mottled sky above him. His adjutant, now mindful that the officer was awake, stopped slapping the oberst’s slab-like features and helped him to a sitting position on the edge of the crater that had blown the command staff to ribbons. The boy kept going on about a medic but Ari couldn’t understand what or who that was. All the while he kept smiling. He would meet his end soon.

He tried to tell the adjutant to stand him upright so that he could lead his men by example but all that came from his mouth was a froth of blood. As he drifted off to Death’s grip, Oberst Hod Ari never saw the ship named after his deeds for this valorous battle; his statue which rose from the fjords of Ostheim; his son.

---

Well, it looks like some of the structure of my DIY's planet's politics have come through on this one. Cheers for that !

[paulJam]

"He tried to tell the adjutant to stand him upright so that he could lead his men by example but all that came from his mouth was a froth of blood."

nice mehman !!

 

 

 

just added my offering via fanfic (post #14). quite long.

as well as the leader death concept i was also explored a couple of other themes/ideas, based from a leadership perspective:

- my chapter has a had/has/will have a number of high level deaths. small numbers and leading from the front seem to work out that way.

- a chapter dealing with a state of growth rather than decline, though coming from a history of scavenging to survive.

- what it is to lead the astartes. the range of duties that it could involve (both nasty, boring and heroic).

 

and think about how this ending specifically affected your DIY.

The death of the Chapter's commander is a demonstration of his commitment to duty and (more conspicuously) his brothers.

The officers lead form the front, not asking the troops to do anything they wouldn't do themselves, and committing to the situation even when it turns to nid droppings.

Although there is no specific repercussion, vendettas or campaigns inspired by this particular event, in an unstated way it reminds all of the Chapter that their life is one that will ultimately end in self-sacrifice, whether they are recuits or chapter masters.

[Arendious]

Thirty seconds to interface, Sergeant.

            Sergeant Visanius hissed through his teeth.  Unlike many of his brothers he’d never been especially comfortable with the machine spirits.  Bad enough in his regular armor, where he just had a nagging feeling of not being alone in his own skin.  But this drop meant wearing a Terminator suit, so the damn thing would be trying to…chat…with him.

            “Damn the cog-humping priests.  Whoever thought making tools talk was a good idea?”

            No data to your query, Sergeant.  Interface imminent.

            “See, :cuss like that.” 

            The world outside the came alive as the drop pod tortured the atmosphere below as it plunged.  The sensors and displays simultaneously snapped off, choked of their sustenance by the plasma enveloping the pod.  Visanius mentally recited the Rite of Emergency Recovery, while his hands checked his loadout, almost of their own volition.  He wanted to reach over and spin the barrels of the assault cannon, a piece of personal pre-battle ritual, but the confines of the pod made that impossible.  Instead, he satisfied himself with spinning the teeth of his chainfist.  The pod jumped and lurched, the displays outside his helm snapped back into life.  The plasma sheathe was gone, and with it much of his velocity.  Almost time to get to work.

            Twenty seconds to impact, Sergeant.  Several units report ineffective surface to air fire.

            Almost as punctuation a foul black cloud burst into life where Visanius’ pod had just passed and the sudden sound of rain told him he’d been peppered with shrapnel.  Some of the screens went dark, the howling air added a tearing whistle.

            Drop pod integrity shows minor breach.  Suit integrity, total.

            “Thanks, I didn’t need to be told that.”

            The ground was coming up fast, and the sound of battle was starting to reach even up to Visanius’ suit sensors.  The suit was counting down the seconds now, but he wasn’t listening.  All his attention was on the icons spreading out below him on the pods displays.  Too many cold blues and suspicious greens, and not nearly as many friendly gold icons as there ought to be.  Not for the first time this operation Sergeant Visanius and the rest of Squad Nesasio were going to have to save some Bronze Battalion school teacher and his pet mortals.  Then again, it also meant crashing down on some unsuspecting victim the way the Primarch intended.  That thought brought a feral smile to Visanius’ face.  The pod struck home like a siege maul.

            Impact.  Let us hunt, Sergeant.

            Visanius didn’t register the suit’s odd comment.  He was too busy kicking free of the ruined drop pod and unleashing the pent fury of the assault cannon.  Around him, the rest of Nesasio had dropped in a ring around the remaining friendlies they had come to support.  Visanius and his brothers waded forward into the massed fire the rapidly recovering enemy was now throwing at them.  Bolt, shell, and beam glanced from their armor as they pressed the perimeter outward away from the drop site, dealing death as they went.  The autoloader snapped home the second belt of cannon shells as Visanius kicked in the chest of traitor guardsman who hadn’t fled fast enough.  He used those rounds to saw a missile launcher team in a nearby building in half.

            Already the recovery boat had dropped and was loading what was left of the Bronze Battalion ‘advisor’ team and their troops.  Visanius had commanded his squad to collapse back on the boat before he saw, or maybe the suit saw, something in the smoke shrouding the city center.  Its movements were…off somehow. But he and the armor identified it almost immediately.

            Warning! Hostile war engine! Possible Warhound class.

            Whatever was wrong with it, a titan this close to the DZ was going to make this a short, unpleasant trip home.  Visanius charged forward into the smoke and ruin.  His fist and cannon carved a path through the traitors toward the skulking war machine.  When the cannon ran dry again, he discarded it.  Punching and cutting his way he came to the foot of the befouled war engine. 

            We both know there’s only one way to kill this thing, Sergeant.

            Visanius wasn’t certain if that was actually the suit talking, or just his imagination confronting the impossibility of his self-assigned task.  Nevertheless, the mission wasn’t complete.  Burning out servos and pseudo-muscles, he leapt upon the thing’s leg.  It’s horn began to howl at that point, almost… fearful?  Visanius laughed as he climbed, cutting and slashing with his chainblade.  The traitors had turned their own weapons on the titan in their haste to save it from him.

            Suit integrity fatally comprised. Operator integrity fatally comprised.

            “Shut up, I know.”

            He punched through a weakened panel, odd ichor poured out.  Pulling himself up, slower now as the traitors’ fire was starting to take its toll.  Then, finally, into the belly of the beast.  He smashed the traitor tech-priest into a paste on the grating below him, using the last strength left to him and the suit to approach the screaming star at the heart of the beast.  He tore away the protective casings.

            And so all things come full circle, Sergeant.  Once, I was meant to protect those who heal these engines.  Now, I protect you, as you destroy them.  It’s been an honor.

            Visanius pondered that in the last second as his howling chain slammed into the Titan’s reactor core.

            “Wait, did you…”

            The world ended in a flash.

[Stercus]

I have a DIY chapter where the actions of its first chapter master have a resounding effect on the organisation, battle tactics and fundamental outlook of the chapter. The interesting part for me is that while his actions lead to a great dishonour and humiliation on the part of the chapter as a whole, his own ending which is quite fundamental to the plot has to remain unknown to have any impact.

I've kind of put myself in the position of creating an officer and warrior of great ability and honourable intent, whose great deeds come only after he has removed himself from the chapter, and further that these deeds are all accomplished anonymously.

In the story I'm (slowly) building up, Trigetius is the first master of the Sons of Aetius chapter. He is raised to this position due to his warrior skills and strategic abilities, and indeed for a number of years operates as a successful leader and establishes the chapter's good reputation. Unfortunately for Trigetius, he underestimates a xenos threat which escalates and leads to him commanding a space hulk boarding action that results in the loss of a third of his chapter, including the entire first company.

He is unable to reconcile his guilt and resigns his post, leaving the chapter to become a blackshield in the Deathwatch.

Upon joining the Deathwatch I don't see this honourable and skilled warrior seeking death recklessly or being easy to kill, so I must assume that before his eventual demise he performs great deeds and battles bravely in the name of humanity.

It is his departure that causes the Sons of Aetius to alter their outlook. The tragedy of losing so many battle brothers is one thing, especially when so many are the veteran core of the chapter, but for the chapter master to be so crippled by this loss that he must leave not only his command, but his identity behind scars them deeply. The chapter become obsessed with not leaving behind any fallen brothers, or even the holy armour they wear, and extend this in particular to the few terminator suits that survived the debacle that wiped out the first company.

Was I to detail the acts of Trigetius following his membership of the Deathwatch, I feel it would lessen the impact of his departure. It seems to me that while his leaving is hardly heroic, it is the single action he made that did most to shape his chapter. Their sense of loss is such that they will fight forever harder to prevent any further shame or grief.

 

What is certain in my mind is that however Trigetius met his end, it was on a forgotten battlefield, under a forgotten sun, and that his grave was unmarked, if it was ever dug at all.